Unable to Stay, Unwilling to Leave
by Darkness Revolution
Summary: We have all seen those rewrites of Titanic. This is one that I'm actually proud to call my own. Warnings: BL, USUK, One-Sided!FrUK, rating may go up depending on certain scenes.
1. The Ghost Ship

**YAY FOR TRAGEDY! ewe**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or the plot of Titanic.**

**Warnings: deleted scenes, drama, yaoi, and character deaths later on.**

Chapter One

The Ghost Ship and Its Ocean of Memories

Two and a half miles underneath the surface of the Northern Atlantic ocean, two submarines came into view of a shadow at the bottom of the ocean. On each sub were at least five crew members, and the one in the lead held the man in charge of the expedition.

He was in his twenties, with spiky blonde hair and deep blue eyes. He was crouched by the front most window, with a video camera in one hand. Standing behind him was his partner-in-crime, a shorter man about the same age, also with blonde hair, but his was combed neatly over one of his navy eyes. He had a cross pin holding back the rest of his hair, and there was a small curl in the back that didn't seem to be attached to his head at all. While the boss was wearing a simple long-sleeved red t-shirt and jeans, his partner was wearing clothes similar to a sailor's uniform.

"10 meters, you should see it." Called another man who looked a bit younger than the first two. He was around nineteen or twenty, with silver hair and light blue eyes. He was wearing a white dress shirt, brown slacks, and a brown jacket.

"There she is!" The boss, a man named Mathias Kohler, called, turning on the video camera and pointing it at the window to try to catch a glimpse of the wreckage of the ship. Kohler was the man leading the excavation of what was once believed to be the most luxurious, unsinkable ship to ever sail, the Titanic.

"It's March 21st, Dive Six, and we're approaching the hull of the Titanic. Seeing her coming out of the darkness like a ghost ship," Mathias said to the camera, "still gets me every time. She's been lying here, two and a half miles from the surface of the North Atlantic, for eighty four years, after her long fall…" He took a dramatic pause, slowly pointing the camera at his own "serious" face, "…from the world above…"

His partner, Nordyr "Norge" Claussen, scoffed, "You're _so_ full of shit, Dane."

Instead of responding, the Danish man laughed obnoxiously at his Norwegian partner and went back to narrating, "The pressure outside is three and a half tons per square inch. These windows are nine inches thick, and if they go, it's sayonara in two microseconds." And with that, he shut the camera off. "Alright, enough of that shit. Ice!" He called to the silver-haired boy, "Bring her down the Grand Stairwell like yesterday."

Kristjan "Ice" Dagr, the silver-haired nineteen-year old at the wheel, nodded, and launched the mini sub right over the dome at the Grand Stairwell at A Deck. Norge sat down at the controls, pulling a camera viewer over his eyes and taking the controls almost like a video gamer at an arcade. As the mini-sub sank down a level, it passed bottom-feeder fish and eels, piles of sand and silt, and remnants of the ship's precious cargo.

"_Mir 2_," Norge said through the radio to the other sub, "We're heading down the Grand Staircase to B Deck, do you copy?"

"Roger, _Mir 1_, we're approaching the piano at the D deck lounge." Came the reply.

On the mini-sub's way down, it passed by many things left behind in the sinking. A doll that probably belonged to a little girl, half buried in the sand. A pair of boots in one of the rooms, left for lack of interest. A pair of reading glasses on the floor, rusted around the rims due to long-term water exposure.

Finally, they came to a joint bedroom and sitting room.

"This is it! This is the room!" Mathias exclaimed, filming the screen casting live video feed from the mini-sub.

"Yeah, I know, Dane." Norge deadpanned, focusing on the sub he was controlling.

"Careful! Watch the door!"

"I know! Chill out, Mathias, I've got this."

"There; there, there, there!"

"I _know_, Kohler! Shut up and let me drive!"

Ice sighed as his boss and his brother bickered like an old married couple. He kept the sub in autopilot, hovering over the opening in the ceiling and leaning on his elbow, bored.

"That's Bonnefoy's bed," Mathias pointed to a broken bed frame onscreen, "That's where the son-of-a-bitch slept!"

Norge nodded silently, taking the mini-sub past the bed and into the walk-in closet.

"Wait, wait!" The Dane shouted, lightly smacking the Norwegian on the arm, "Go back, I think I saw something."

Norge backtracked, turning to hover over a fallen door a few feet from the closet. It was a cracked, old, and most likely unstable wooden door, leaning against the wall at a forty-five degree angle. However, it looked like something was definitely behind it. Norge took the controls for the "arms and hands" of the mini-sub, and carefully took hold of the decrepit door.

"There you go, flip it! Flip it, flip it!"

"I got it, Dane!"

"Careful; don't drop it!"

"Mathias, would you _SHUT UP?!"_ Norge said, at the same time ripping the door out of its resting place and flipping it out of the way, dropping it without completely shattering it.

"…Well, that's one way to flip an old door in a sunken luxury Royal Mail Ship while looking for the most costly piece of shit in the world…" Ice commented to himself, leaning on one elbow, his hand cradling his face.

Mathias scooted closer to the screen, and Norge squinted through the viewer, both trying to see what was behind the wall of dust turned up by the violence of the small Norwegian. Suddenly interested, Ice moved a little closer as well. Norge was the first one to see the outline of something through the murk.

"…are you two seeing this…?" He asked in amazement.

Ice's eyes grew wide and he rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn't just seeing things. Mathias cracked an astonished smile as the outline of a rusty safe came into view.

"It's payday, boys."

On the surface of the water above them was a Russian research ship named the Keldysh. The entire crew was gathered on deck, and every single one of them cheered as the completely rusted safe was brought up onto the deck. Everyone gathered around it, and Mathias sprayed his partners with a fresh bottle of Champaign.

"Who told you?" He shouted to Norge, "Who said it was in the room?! Say it, Norge!"

Norge sighed, smiling, "You did, Mathias…" The Dane kissed the Norwegian's cheek, earning him a slap, and he moved to help crack open the safe. A crewmember handed him a crowbar, and, after sawing off the hinges to make it easier, the safe was pulled open. A waterfall of mud and filthy water later, Mathias stuck a hand into each compartment, pulling out wads of old, soggy money and scraping out mud. The last thing he pulled from the safe was a warped old notebook, and then… nothing.

His eyebrows furrowed, and Ice, who was holding the video camera from earlier, asked, "…no diamond?"

Mathias stood there, not wanting to believe he was right. He checked the compartments again, then hissed, "Shit." He sat back on his feet, looking at the safe in disbelief.

"You know," Ice said bluntly, "The same thing happened to Geraldo, and his career never recovered…"

Mathias looked up at the camera and shoved it to the side, "Turn the camera off, Kristjan."

Inside the ship, there was a lab where what _was_ found was being cleaned off and examined. A satellite call came, and Ice answered it before handing it to Mathias, saying, "Kohler, partners in New York want to know how it's going."

Mathias sighed and took the phone, muttering, "Not these guys again…" He put the phone up to his ear and answered, "Hi, Tino, Berwald. Listen, it wasn't in the safe. But, hey, there are still plenty of places it could be… Hell, yes! The purser's office, the mother's room, the private promenade… I just need more ti—" He stopped mid-sentence as he caught sight of something that Norge was spraying the mud off of. He gaped at the sheet of paper that was slowly being revealed.

It was a drawing of a man, laying naked on a couch. He had short, light-colored hair and a soft smile on his face. He had a small and slim, but still muscular frame and light eyes. Above his eyes were a pair of thick eyebrows. Not thick enough to be unnatural, but thick enough to be noticeable. His legs were positioned just so that nothing below his waist was revealed, but it was clear that the only thing he was wearing was a necklace…

With an unmistakable heart-shaped jewel in the middle.

"Um… Hold on, guys, I think we have something here…" Kohler said into the phone. "…I'll call you back!" He quickly hung up and snapped his fingers at Ice, "Gimme the… the picture of the diamond! Quick!" The silver-haired boy handed him the photograph, and he held it up to the drawing to compare. After a few seconds of looking back between photo and drawing, he muttered,

"…I'll be God-damned…"

* * *

In a small house in a suburb just outside of Boston, Massachusetts, an old man sat at a window. He was withered, but wasn't purely skin and bone. His neon green eyes still held a certain fire, and his blonde hair may have faded to white a long time ago, but it still held some life. He refused to age any way but gracefully, and the one thing he would never let go of was his wildfire of an attitude.

In the kitchen of the small, two-story house, was a man in his early twenties. He was pale, with dark brown hair cropped short in the back and kept longer around his face. His amber eyes were almond-shaped, and squinted slightly, due to his southeast Asian heritage. He wore a baggy red oriental-style shirt and a pair of black jeans that were being pawed at by a fat ginger-and-white Scottish Fold.

"Hold on, Iggycat, I'll feed you in a minute." The man said to the cat, setting the table for dinner.

All the while, the TV was playing the news, the lady saying, _"…excavation of the ship they said was unsinkable, the Titanic—"_

The old man, named Arthur Wang, stiffened and got up from his chair slowly, grabbing his cane, "Lee? Is that the news?"

"Yeah, Gramps." Lee responded from where he was feeding the impatient cat.

"Turn it up, love…" The elderly Brit asked, walking up to the TV as his grandson turned up the volume.

"-_we have live satellite feed from the ship _Keldysh_, where the mastermind behind this amazing discovery, Mathias Kohler is ready to answer our questions_."

Another frame appeared on the screen next to the anchor woman, displaying a man with bright blue eyes and wild blonde hair being blown by the wind.

"_Mr. Kohler, thank you for being with us. Now, your expedition is in the middle of a storm of controversy. Many are even calling you a grave robber_."

"_Well, no one called the excavation of the artifacts from King Tut's tomb 'grave robbery'_," Kohler said, "_I have a team of museum-trained experts out here making sure all the artifacts recovered are perfectly preserved and catalogued. Everybody knows at least one thing about the Titanic; the amount of lives given, the nobility of the band playing at the end, but what I'm interested in are the untold stories_." The screen Kohler was on flashed to a drawing of a naked woman wearing a heart-shaped diamond necklace, "_This drawing was found in one of the first class rooms; a piece of paper that's been under water for eighty-four years. Should this have remained underwater for eternity…?"_

Arthur squinted at the drawing, trying to see it clearer, then, he recognized it, and his eyes flew as wide open as they would go.

"I'll be God-damned…" He muttered.

* * *

As Kohler was about to launch the submarines for a fourth time to gather more artifacts from the wreckage, Ice came up to him.

"Hey, Mathias!" The blonde turned around and Ice continued, "There's a satellite call for you."

"Ice, do you not see the submersibles going in the water?" Kohler asked, still agitated from earlier, "I'm busy!"

"Believe me, Broski, you _want_ to take this call." Ice said, gesturing toward the phone. Kohler groaned and followed him.

"This had better be good…" He growled.

As Ice was leading him to the phone, he said, "You have to speak up; he's kind of old."

"Great," Kohler said sarcastically, bringing the phone to his ear, "This is Mathias Kohler, how may I help you Mr…" He looked at Ice.

"Wang. Arthur Wang."

"—Mr. Wang?"

Back at the house in Boston, Arthur spoke into the landline, smiling politely to himself. "Yes, I was just wondering if you'd found the Heart of the Ocean yet, Mr. Kohler?"

On the _Keldysh_, Mathias looked at Ice, eyes wide. Ice nodded, a smirk on his face and muttered, "Told ya you wanted to take the call."

A surprised smile on his face, Mathias turned back to the phone and said, "Alright, you have my attention, Arthur. Can you tell us who the man in the picture is?"

"Oh, yes," Arthur said, smirking, "The man in the picture is _me_."

* * *

Helicopter blades flapped in circles as the sleek black chopper brought itself into range of the_ Keldysh_. Mathias and Nordyr were headed up to the helipad from the lab, where they had been finishing up examinations on the other things they found.

"He's a goddamn lair! Some nutcase seeking money or publicity; God only knows why! Like that Russian babe, Anesthesia!" Norge shouted over the noise

Ice, who had been standing at the rail, came rushing back to them, shouting over the noise, "They're inbound!" He pointed at the chopper, which continued to get closer to the ship.

As the three continued up to the helipad, Norge continued, "Arthur Ignatius Kirkland _died_ on the Titanic when he was seventeen. Right? If he had lived, he'd be over a hundred by now!"

"Hundred and one next month." Mathias shouted back. Norge faltered for a second, then he came right back.

"Okay," He said, "So he's a very _old_ goddamn liar! Listen, I've already done the background on this guy all the way back to the twenties; when he was working as an actor. AN ACTOR! There's your first clue, Sherlock! His name was Arthur Jones back then. Then he marries some guy—yes, I said _guy_—named Wang, they move to Boston, and the two of them adopt a couple of kids. Now Wang's dead, and from what I hear, so is most of his Opium-addict family!"

Mathias turned his head to look at his partner and shouted, "Yes, but everyone who knows about the diamond is either dead or on this boat, but _he_ knows!"

They made it to the helipad, where the chopper had just landed and was in the process of unloading its cargo. The first to step out was an Asian man with dark brown hair. Mathias went up to her and shook her hand.

"Hello, I'm Mathias Kohler, welcome to the _Keldysh_." He said. The man nodded.

"Thank you; I'm Lee." He introduced himself, then helped bring his grandfather, who was in a wheelchair, down to the deck. Mathias then went up to Arthur and shook his hand as well.

"Mr. Wang, welcome to the _Keldysh_. I'm Mathias Kohler." Arthur smiled politely and nodded. Lee went behind the wheelchair before any of the crewmen could get there, and pushed his grandfather out of the sun.

Once they were all inside, Kohler showed them to their rooms. Soon, their luggage was hauled down, and Arthur set to work setting up a bunch of pictures on his bedside table.

There were at least twenty frames, all filled with one or more pictures from his past. The biggest ones were the newest, and the smallest ones were still in black and white. There were adventures from all decades, and they were all adventures he'd gone on. He was riding a horse in the surf of California's Santa Monica Beach, getting ready to fly a plane for the first time, holding a college diploma, and getting stone-cold drunk on his 21st birthday. There were birthdays, parties, and weddings he'd attended, photos from small movies he'd been in, and family, high school, and college reunions. The last one he set up was a picture of him standing at the bow of a sailboat, laughing with an Asian man with brown hair pulled back into a low ponytail, and bright, amber eyes.

Later, Kohler knocked on the door frame, Norge behind him. "Are your staterooms alright?"

"Yes, yes, very nice…" Arthur adjusted the picture on the table, then smiled and nodded, satisfied. "Have to have my pictures when I travel…" He turned to face him then, that same polite—and somewhat forced—smile on his face, almost contrasted by the fiery look in his bright green eyes.

"Is there anything I can get you? Anything at all?" Mathias asked.

This time, he smiled for real, folding his hands in his lap. "Yes. I would like to see my drawing."

The drawing sat where it had been for the past two days; in the lab in a small, glass case with no lid, and filled with distilled water. Arthur leaned up to get a better view of it, and when his eyes traced over the flawless curves and lines, his mind flashed back to the night it happened. The sound of the pencil on the paper, the thud of his own heart, and the gaze of a pair of bright, beautiful crystalline eyes.

He opened his eyes again and sat back down carefully, smiling sadly.

"The Heart of the Ocean was originally worn by King Louis the 16th," Mathias recited, picking up the photo of the diamond, "Back then it was called the Blue Diamond of the Crown. That was around the time ol' Louis lost everything from the neck up, and the Crown Diamond was chopped too; cut into a heart-like shape that became known as the Heart of the Ocean." Kohler made his way next to Arthur, "There was an old claim made under terms of absolute secrecy. Can you tell me who the claimant was?"

Arthur smirked, "I should imagine a man named Bonnefoy."

Ice and Norge looked at each other in shock, and Mathias grinned, "Francis Bonnefoy, that's right. Son of the famous Pittsburgh Steel Tycoon. The claim was for a diamond Francis bought his fiancé… you."

Arthur nodded, scowling. "I hated that man... And that diamond? It was a bloody rock, and not a light one either. I only wore it this once." He gestured to the drawing. Lee leaned over to look at it.

"You really think this is you, Gramps?" he asked. Arthur looked at him, smirk ever-present.

"It _is_ me, love. Wasn't I a hot one?" Arthur laughed to himself, then coughed a bit.

Ice spoke up from where he and Norge were standing, behind the table where the drawing was, "Look at the date on that drawing."

Lee leaned in, and read off the date, "April fourteenth, 1912…"

"Which means if your Grandfather is who he says he is," Norge said, " then he was wearing the diamond the day the Titanic sank."

Mathias smiled at Arthur, "And that makes you my new best friend."

* * *

After a short animated video and explanation of how the Titanic sank, Arthur smiled, lost in memories.

"Thank you for that very forensic analysis, Mr. Claussen, I'm very glad you know how to work a computer."

Kristjan snickered, Mathias doubled over in laughter, and Norge began choking him. Ice pulled his brother off and sat him down. Arthur chuckled and continued.

"But the experience of it was somewhat different."

The air in the room suddenly became serious, and Mathias (once he freed himself from the Nord's grasp) took up a tape recorder. "Will you share it with us?"

Arthur was about to answer, then he noticed the video taken from the Mir 2 on the screen next to Mathias's head. His eyes widened, and he got up from his wheelchair. Shuffling slowly over to the screen, he saw the first class doors into the grand ballroom, and visualized what it had looked like before. He heard the fine violin music, saw all the people, and covered his mouth as the memories came rushing back: Southampton, the horn, shoving off, the meals, the beds, the crew, the passengers, the iceberg, the boats, the water… His eyes grew even wider, and his head fell into his hands. "O-oh…"

Lee came quickly up behind him and gently held his grandfather's shoulders, "I'm taking him to rest."

Voice weak, Arthur refused. "N-no."

"C'mon, Gramps…"

"No!" Arthur brought his head back up and shuffled back to his wheelchair. Mathias pulled up a chair and sat backwards in it. Ice leaned against the table, and Norge also pulled up a chair.

"Tell us, Arthur..." Mathias said softly, turning on the tape recorder. Arthur closed his eyes for a second, and folded his hands on his lap again.

"It's been… eighty four years—"

"That's okay," Kohler said, "Just try to remember anything. Anything at all…"

"_If you would bloody let me finish_…" Arthur snapped. Mathias held up his hands defensively and apologized.

"Wanker…" Arthur grumbled before beginning again, "It's been eighty for years… and I can still smell the fresh paint. The china had never been used. The sheets had never been slept in. Titanic was called the ship of dreams, and it was… It really was…"

* * *

**And that's where I'm gonna cut it off. Comments? Questions? Leave them in a review. Negativity? Complaints? Lemme quote Bambi: "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say it at all." That doesn't count constructive criticism. ^-^ I'm not taking any crap on this story. It has my all-time favorite movie, my all-time favorite pairing, and my all-time favorite anime.**


	2. Shoving Off

**Chapter two, here we go! This chapter is a jump back in time to when the Titanic was shoving off. **_**Iggy narrating is in Bolded Italics like this.**_

**Disclaimer: Nope.**

Chapter Two

Shoving Off

On its maiden voyage, Titanic was set to shove off from Southampton, England.

The spring sun beamed down on the pristine white and obsidian black hull of the White Star Line Royal Mail Ship. The docks around the great liner were hustling and bustling with people. Cargo was being loaded into the lowest deck from gangplanks. Among that cargo was a Renault automobile, lifted into the load from the dock above. Hundreds upon thousands of people gathered to see off the grand ship.

The crowds on the docks parted as three more automobiles pulled up, one carrying passengers, and two carrying luggage. The driver of the first car got out of his seat to open up the first door to the car. A slightly delicate but still firm, gloved hand extended from the cab, and the driver held out his hand for the passenger, who took it routinely. A pair of black leather dress shoes stepped down from the car, and out into the sunlight stepped a young man of seventeen years. He wore a dark green slim-fitting suit, and a dark green fedora to match, shading some of his face and almost hiding his silky blonde hair. He turned his pale face up towards the ship, revealing a pair of green eyes, soft, pink lips, and thick, fluffy eyebrows.

His mother was a tall woman, a thin woman, with an elegant but permanently strict look and faded green eyes. She stepped out from the other side, having been offered another man's hand for assistance, and came to stand by him. Once looking at his gaze, she followed it to meet the massive ship at port and gave a sort of nod of approval and straightening her gloves. From Arthur's other side, another finely dressed man appeared, his golden waves of hair groomed perfectly and his eyes gazing at the ship with so much pride he might have designed it himself. "Oui. A magnificent ship, isn't it? Biggest one we have yet. Don't you think so, Arthur?" he asked his fiance, taking in his fine features.

Arthur merely snorted in contempt for having to be there. "I don't see what all the fuss is about..." He said snootily, turning back to face his mother and his... dare he even think the word... _fiancé_. Ugh, even the thought of marrying that man made him shudder. He added to his complaining, "It doesn't _look_ any bigger than the _Mauretainia_."

The young man chuckled, "You can be blasé about some things, Arthur, mon cher, but not about Titanic. It's at least a hundred feet longer than _Mauretania_." As the man, Arthur Kirkland, scowled and rolled his eyes, the other added, "And far more luxurious…" Arthur walked toward the gangplank, and the Frenchman, Francis Bonnefoy, turned back around. "Ah, Madame Kirkland." Francis looked after Arthur with a sort of astonishment in his crystalline eyes, such blue eyes they were, and shook his head. He turned to the boy's mother, whom he shared the height of by now, and made a clucking noise in his throat. "Your son is very difficult to impress for someone his age. This ship! Not to be insulted at all. This is a fine ship, oui?"

Britanny Kirkland nodded at Francis's antics, who was then a thirty-three year old bachelor rich enough to secure them all first class components on the ship as well as a new future out there. She agreed with a nod, but her pale eyes were on her son. _Don't stray out of line_, said the gaze. _You're engaged. Behave like the gentleman you are_. And Francis would notice nothing, but rant on. "...God Himself could not sink the likes of this ship, you see. Titanic is unsinkable!"

Unsinkable. That was like saying impossible. Arthur hated the word impossible. Everything was possible, even the Titanic sinking. Suddenly, a shudder ran down his spine. He would have thought something of it, but he knew no one would care, so he did what everyone had told him to do since he was very young; brush it off. He blamed the chilly sea air, and told himself to keep a calm demeanor, to exist without resisting. That was how he lived ever since his father left him and his mother with a Titanic-sized debt hidden by a good name. That was the whole reason he was being forced to marry Francine; because it would 'ensure their survival', as his mother so frequently said.

As Francis was finished speaking, a crewman from Titanic came up to him. "Sir? Sir, you will have to check your bags through the main terminal; it's round that way..." The crewman pointed to the main terminal.

"There? That is fine. Magnifique. Antonio— you take care of my luggage and the luggage of my lovely fiance and his mother, would you? See that it all gets into our rooms within the hour. I could use a good cigarette and they were all packed away. Arthur—" Francis turns back to the young man, looking him over again. Acknowlodging the man's youthful beauty, because his slender figure, his slight curves, the pale, smooth skin—it was all something to behold. Arthur reluctantly took the arm Francis offered him as he nodded towards the gangplank, where people are being checked in. "Madame Kirkland? Ah, there you are. We will go and check in now."

The man mentioned before, Antonio, was Francis's valet. He was a Spaniard, with bright and delightful green eyes, toussled dark brown hair, and tan skin. He led the crewman to the back of the automoblies, explaining which bags needed to be in which rooms. Then, the crewman set off with them, leaving Antonio to follow Francis and the Kirklands.

Arthur held Francis's arm robotically, because he knew he had to. Then, he followed his fiance (shudder) and his mother up towards the "grandest ship in the world".

_**Yes, to every other doomed soul on that hell-bound ship, it was "the ship of dreams." To me? It was a bleeding **__**slave ship**__**, dragging me to America in chains. On the outside, I was everything a well-brought-up lad should be. Inside, I was merely going along with this horrid existence, kicking and screaming.**_

The ship's horn, signaling that Titanic would be setting out in ten minutes, could be heard from a couple blocks away, in a pub clouded with cigarette smoke.

In one chair sat a tall man with a childlike smile on his face, ash-blonde hair, and bright purple eyes. Next to him sat his little sister, a girl no older than seventeen, with long, light blonde hair and the same purple eyes. The bother and sister were whispering to each other in furious Russian. The other two were sitting on the other side of the table, side-by-side.

"What the hell do you think they're saying, Feli?" A young man, maybe seventeen, maybe eighteen, cracked his knuckles sharply over by the left side of a table in the pub. It wasn't too far off from the port, and today it was especially crowded as a result of people gathering to say goodbye to their loved ones. But their table got the privacy it needed. There was a half played game of poker on the table between them, and on the other side was a cheery young Italian of 19, his hair a nice auburn with a slight curl, and the guy who had spoken. He had a pair of glasses on his face, was reasonably clean shaven for a lad who wore such shabby clothes, and his pools of molten topaz had all the intensity and lightness in the world.

They had all placed their bets, and it was an all-or-nothing game, with one hand left to go. On the table sat a pile of coins and bills, as well as a pocket watch and a couple cuban cigars.

Feli, the 19-year-old Italian shrugged, the curl that stuck out of the side of his head bouncing a bit as he moved. He kept a dopey smile on his face, and his brown eyes were closed. He was just as shabbily dressed as the man he was sitting next to.

"Ve~" He said cheerily, "I don't know. They're not even speaking English. I don't think they're even speaking human..." Then, the air-headed man whimpered, "They scare me, amico..."

Alfred gave a relaxed chuckle—his facial features, his easy air—the boy was clearly American. He glanced at the two at the other end as they finally stopped, and the tall man leered at them both. Then the cards were dealt, and the man looked at Alfred, who smiled back undaunted and tosses in a few more coins to the growing piles, emptying his pocket. The blue eyes floated over challengingly, and then the large Russian reached into his bag and pulls out two tickets, placing them in the pile.

The woman's eyes widened. "Vanya, brat, nyet! This ve cannot bet. This—" Her delicate fingers splayed across his arm, but he shot her a look of warning. A Russian's pride was not to be challenged in this way, and a deal was a deal. Alfred doesn't mind a bit, at his end. Instead he winks at Feliciano, and finally deals the last round of cards.

"You are _pazzo_, Alfred…" Feli whispered, "You bet all we have…!"

Alfred arched his eyebrows and gave the Italian man a smirk. "When you've got nothing, you've got nothing to lose, dude." That did nothing to help the shaky Italian's nerves.

"Alright, gentlemen, lady," he added, dipping his head to the silvery haired woman. The carefree voice lowered to a silken seductiveness. "Someone's life's about to change… Feli, what have you got?" he asked his best friend, who shook his head sadly and meekly put down his cards. "_Niente?"_

Feliciano whimpered, "_Niente_…"

Alfred shrugged, his face blank, and moved his blue eyes to Natalia. "Nat, how 'bout you, sweetheart?"

She glared daggers at him, but put down her cards as well—a whole lot of nothing. Alfred took it cheerfully and moved on. "Ivan?"

The tall Russian lightened up and smirked confidently as he laid down a pair of aces, a pair of queens, and a random four. Alfred bit his lip, but kept his cards concealed. He shook his head and looked apologetically at Feliciano.

"Shit; two pair… I'm sorry, Feli…" He sighed.

"…_Che_, sorry?" Feli asked, "Alfred, you bet all our money!"He looked, wide-eyed, at his friend, his voice higher pitched than normal due to stress.

"I'm sorry!" Alfred shouted over him, "You're not going to be able to see your brother again for a long time."

Confused, Feli blinked. "Ve?"

A wide grin spread across Alfred's face, and he continued, "Cause we're going to America!" He slammed down two fours and three sixes, "FULL HOUSE, BOYS! WOOHOO-HOO!"

Feliciano's confused expression turned quickly up into a surprised one, and he jumped up, grabbing the tickets from the table and shouting praises in Italian.

"_Dio mio, grazie! Grazie!"_ He laughed as Alfred began to gather up their winnings. Before Al could sweep the money into a bag, Natalia leaned across the table and grabbed him by the collar.

"_Vy obmana synsuki_." Alfred didn't speak Russian, but what she said had to have been some sort of insult, for the woman holding his collar raised a fist as if she were going to hit him. Alfred winced, trying to shrink away, then Natalia turned right around and swung the punch at Ivan, who ducked just in time. Then the Russian girl proceeded to chase her brother out of the bar, pulling a knife from her sleeve. Alfred laughed, kind of shocked, and looked at his partner-in-crime, who broke out into a grin, pointing the tickets at him.

"You're crazy lucky, you know that?!"

Al only took the tickets himself and kissed them as if he were a slave kissing his homeland after being captive all his life. Then, he held them up and shouted to the entire bar: "I'M GOING HOME!"

His friend nearly tackled him with a hug, grinning at the other people like a kid in a candy store and calling out, "We go to America~ Haha~!"

The bartender chuckled, calling to the two winners: "Naw, mate, _Titanic_ go to America. In _five minutes_." With another chuckle, he gestured to the clock on the wall behind him. Alfred's eyes widened, and he turned to look at Feliciano, who looked equally surprised.

"Shit, Feli—"

"Go!" Feli shouted as Alfred began frantically gathering up their money.

Literally thirty seconds later, the two of them were running down the dock, to where the third-class passengers had just finished being loaded. They pushed past people and cargo, making a mad dash for the last gangplank open. Alfred was in the lead, carrying his personal bags, as well as the sack holding what they'd won in that life-changing poker game. Feliciano was right behind him, carrying his own baggage.

"You're crazy, Al!" Feli shouted to his best friend, grinning in spite of himself as the American weaved expertly through a crowd of people.

Alfred laughed, "Maybe, but I've got the tickets~!" He looked back for one second, and nearly ran into a horse and cart. He yelped in surprise, hesitating for a moment before running around it. Feli laughed.

"Watch out!" He shouted, snickering as he chased after his friend.

The two barely made it up the final gangplank, with Alfred yelling, "Wait! We're passengers!" at the officers closing the doors. The officers waited until the two got to the end of the gangplank, which was about three or four feet from the edge of the massive ship. Alfred held out the tickets.

"Have you been through the inspection queue?" The officer closest to them asked, taking a look at the tickets.

"Yeah, of course!" Alfred answered for them, "Anyways, we don't have any lice; we're Americans! Both of us!"

The officer looked them up and down, knowing they were probably lying about having been through the heath inspection. However, they were running short on time, and needed to shove off, and the men had legitimate tickets.

"Alright then, come aboard."

The two grinned at each other, then hopped aboard the grand steamer, coming into the ship at E deck. They ran through the hallways, and Alfred, his adrenaline still pumping from the run, turned to his brother, not slowing at all.

"We're the luckiest sons of bitches in the world, you know that?!" Alfred shouted, grinning as Feliciano laughed, out of breath.

The ship gave its final whistle as the two were running up to the boat deck. Alfred and Feliciano could feel the deck start to vibrate under their feet as the engines started running. There were hundreds of passengers all along the port side of the ship, all waving to the people on the docks. People from all classes, young and old, waving as if they were superstars. They all waved to family, friends, and others, and the crowd on the dock waved back. It didn't matter to them if they really knew anybody or not, they just waved and cheered, and waved and cheered. Some leaned over the rail, others lifted children up so they could see.

Alfred joined in this by dropping his bags and nearly crashing into the rail. He climbed onto the first bar of the rail and waved his whole arm at the people on the docks. He grinned, shouting, "Good bye!"

Feliciano looked at Alfred, confused. "You know somebody?"

"Of course not! But that's not the point!" Al replied, shouting back to the crowd, "Bye!"

Feli waved as well, grinning, "Goodbye!"

"Goodbye; I'll miss you!" Al yelled.

"I will never forget you!" Feli laughed.

The ship pulled away from the dock, and, after a near-collision with a ship called the New York, cut through the water in the port, heading for the open sea. It left a trail of smoke and white water behind it, as it set out on its maiden voyage.


	3. First Sight

**One note real quick: there are two 'Irish' characters in this story. Since there wasn't a North Ireland in 1912, the male Irish character is supposed to be North Ireland, and the female character is supposed to be the Republic of Ireland.**

**That's all, enjoy the chapter. OwO**

**Again, **_**Older Arthur's narration is written like this**_**.**

* * *

Chapter 3

First Sight

"G-60, G-60," Alfred muttered to himself as his blue gaze drifted from his ticket, to the numbers on the doors, and back to the ticket. Finally, the two numbers matched, and he called back over his shoulder to Feliciano, "Here it is, Feli…"

There were already two other occupants in the room, both of whom looked slightly confused when Alfred and Feli walked in. One was a young blonde woman in her early twenties, dressed in a raggedy dress that looked a bit too big for her, and the other was a man that looked a few years older than her, wearing a tan trench coat and a blue-and-white scarf around his neck. Without staring, Alfred grinned and shook both of their hands, introducing himself. "Hi, I'm Alfred; Alfred F. Jones, how are you? Nice to meet you both."

In the meantime, Feliciano had flopped down on the top bunk bed and gotten comfortable. He grinned happily, glad to finally have an actual mattress under him, compared to his last choice of sleeping places—the hard ground under a bridge is less than comfortable, at the most.

Jokingly, when Alfred turned and saw his friend on the bed, he gave the small Italian a playful shove, laughing, "Who says you get top bunk, huh?" The Italian laughed.

* * *

On the other end of the social spectrum, Arthur, his mother, and Francis had arrived at their joint rooms. A steward led the young Englishman to a private deck adjacent to their rooms. Arthur wandered over to the windows and opened one, looking out over the view of the bow of the ship. Beyond that was the vast expanse of water that was the Northern Atlantic Ocean. He smiled sadly to himself.

"This is your private promenade deck, Sir. Would you be requiring anything?"

Without a verbal reply, Arthur waved him off, and he nodded and excused himself, leaving him with his thoughts. He sighed longingly and looked out over the view.

"Romantic…" He muttered to himself. In truth, Arthur really was a sucker for romantic things, especially views and gestures. Regretfully, he even acknowleged the way Francis proposed as romantic. Not because he was madly in love with the Frenchman (he would rather gag himself with a live poisonous jellyfish than love him) but because Francis could have proposed to an orange the way he did to Arthur, and he would have gotten a 'yes'. No, it was at the insistance of his mother that he say yes, and it was for her sake that he was going through with it.

He sighed, "Sea air's getting to you, chap. Get your head on straight." He stood back up, going back into the sitting room. He leaned on the doorway and took in the scene in front of him. A maid was setting up flowers all around the room, while another helped Francis put out different paintings.

"This one?" The maid asked.

"No," Arthur's so-called 'lover' replied as he looked through a box full of paintings, "It had a lot of faces on it… This is the one." He pulled out a painting that looked like it was done by a child. Arthur rolled his eyes. In his mind, art was supposed to convey truth in life, not colors slapped on a canvas with a paintbrush. But to Francis, anything could be a work of art, so long as it drew some sort of emotion out of you. Arthur believed that children's artwork should be limited to children, not grown adults tossing buckets of paint everywhere and calling it art.

"And you want all of them out, sir?" the maid was saying.

"Yes… We need a little color in this room." Francis said, placing the painting on a chair.

Arthur groaned, "Dear God, please tell me you're not pulling those fingerpaintings out again… They were such a bloody waste of money." Instead of the reaction he wanted to see, Francis only smiled at his fiance's comment.

"The difference between your taste of art and mine, mon cher, is that I have some. They're facinating; like being inside a dream. There is truth, but no logic."

"What's the artist's name?" The maid asked as she pulled out another painting.

"Picasso, I think…" Francis said, taking the painting and trying to find a new place for it.

Arthur snorted in contempt, "Picasso. Won't amount to a bloody thing."

Francis smiled and rolled his eyes, "Amour, can't you find a good thing to say about my painting collection?"

Arthur looked at all the paintings, then walked over to a painting of water lillies, gesturing to it, "This guy, Claude Monet, is the only practical painter in the world today. He paints what he sees, and not just in a way so we see what is there, but in a way, he's letting us see through his eyes. Good enough for you?"

Smirking, Francis clapped for him, "Spoken like a true critic." Then, he chuckled and went back to putting up his paintings, "Let's put the degas in the bedroom…" He walked out of the sitting room, leaving Arthur alone, with a bottle of champagne. He sighed and poured himself a glass, trying to relax. Then, he realized that Francis had been headed for his bedroom, and followed to make sure he wasn't putting up anything else.

"Francis, I'll not have you putting that in my room!" He said, stepping inside the room.

The Frenchman chuckled, "_Our _room, cher. Our."

Arthur rolled his eyes, as the maid that had been helping Francis went to turn down the bedsheets, sighing dreamily, "Pardon my musings, sirs… But it's amazing to think that tonight when I crawl between the sheets, I'll be the first!" She turned to look at them, but neither of them were looking at her. Francis had his eyes trained on Arthur, and the young Brit was trying to ignore him. The older man's eyes held a devious, lustful glint, and suddenly, the maid felt uncomfortable. She quickly excused herself, curtsied, and hurried out of the room.

Like a panther on the prowl, Francis stalked closer to Arthur, closing the door behind him. Cornered like a rabbit, Arthur could do nothing but press his back against the wall as Francis leaned over him.

"Tonight when _I_ crawl beneath the sheets, I'll still be the first." Arthur nearly winced as he felt Francis's stubbly beard brushing against his cheek. He could feel Francis's breath on his ear as his fiancé purred in that repulsing accent of his, "The first and only… Forever…"

Arthur shuddered in disgust.

* * *

_**At Cherbourg, a young woman came aboard named Elizabeta Herdervary. She was a delight; we all called her Lizzy. History might name her as the Unsinkable Lizzy Herdervary. Her father had struck gold somewhere out west, and she was what mother called "New Money".**_

By the next afternoon, the _Titanic_ was steaming west off the coast of Ireland, with nothing out ahead of her but ocean. She took to the sea, her crew's hearts alight with a new fervor and feeling of adventure as the grand steamer stretched her legs in the open waters.

Excitedly, Alfred and Feli ran up to the bow of the ship to look out over the water. Alfred laughed and leaned over the rail, almost breathless with fascination. Then, something moving under the rich blue waves caught his gaze. He squinted through his glasses, and then his face lit up as he recognized the graceful fusiform shapes of a pod of dolphins. They swam just below the surface, riding on the pull of the ship as she made 21 knots though the water.

Alfred grinned and shook Feli's arm, "Look, Feli, look! It's a dolphin; you see it?" Feli nodded and looked with him as the dolphins powered through the water next to the ship. "Look, he's gonna jump!"

Effortlessly, as if it were as simple as a flap of its tail, the leader of the pod shot out of the waves, little droplets of water flying off of its sleek hide. One of the other dolphins broke the surface with his back, fin peeking out of the water as if he was testing to see how the air felt. Soon, they were all jumping, careless and free as the birds in the sky. It almost made Alfred wish he was one of them.

"I can-a see the Statue of Liberty already," Feliciano said, pointing out to the horizon, "Is-a very small, of course…"

Alfred chuckled. He knew what Feli meant; out there, on that horizon, was their future. Finally, he was getting out of Europe. He was going home. He would see his family—or what was left of it—and maybe even make a name for himself. He would refrain from rushing to settle down; he wasn't the romantic type (waiting for the right partner, he justified). He would live as he wanted, in the land of the free, the land of opportunity. His home.

All this pride and excitement built up inside him like pressurized Coca-Cola in a bottle, and finally exploded as he jumped up onto the rail (holding a thick cable for support) and shouted, "I'M THE KING OF THE WORLD!"

Feli joined in, hooting and hollering, as Alfred let his head fall back and howled like a hungry wolf. All that exhilaration and utter joy was let out as they both screamed and howled like they didn't care who heard. They were free now; flying like the dolphins did below them.

* * *

Back in first class, Arthur was seriously considering shooting himself in the head. He was at lunch with some of the most important people on the ship: the designer of the ship, a stuffy Austrian man, the cheery Irishman who physically built the ship, Elizabeta, his mother, and Francis. The idle, airheaded conversation had somehow led to how amazing the Titanic was.

"She is the largest moving object made by the hand of man in all history," Roderich Edelstien, the designer, remarked with a twinkle in his eyes, "And our master shipbuilder, Mr. Liam O'Connor here, built her from the keel plates up."

"Well," the ginger-haired man added modestly, "I may have knocked her together, but the idea was Mr. Edelstien's. He envisioned a steamer so grand in scale, and so luxurious in its appointments that its supremacy would never be challenged. And here she is!" A twinkle in his eye, he gently banged his hand on the table, "Willed into solid reality."

Alright, that was it. Arthur was done. He sighed and tried to tune out the rest of them, while still looking like he was paying attention to their excrutiatingly boring conversation. Quietly, he pulled a cigarette holder out of the inside pocket on his blazer, put a smoke on the end of it, and lit it up. He took a drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs and dull his worries. His mother took notice and leaned over to him.

"You know I don't like that, Arthur." She muttered. To spite her, Arthur blew smoke in her face, and she backed off to avoid breathing it. Francis saw this and swiped the cigarette off the end of the holder, putting it out in the ash tray. Arthur shot him a glare, but he merely smiled at Brittany.

"He knows, Madame Kirkland," Then, as the waiter made it to the two of them, he said, "He and I will both have the lamb—rare, with very little mint sauce." Smiling at Arthur, he added, "You like lamb, don't you, cher?"

Though Arthur smiled sweetly on the outside, he was thinking something very different on the inside: _I want to fucking murder you_. He hated lamb. Always hated it. So no, he didn't want lamb with little mint sauce, he wanted a fucking steak with a baked potato with sour cream and onions and cheese and bacon bits and he wanted to eat it all right in front of them like a man.

Fortunately for Francis, he was saved by Lizzy. "You going to cut his meat too, Franky? Come on, he's a big boy, leave him alone…" Francis, unamused, half-glared at the woman, who quickly changed the subject: "So, who thought of the name 'Titanic'?" Her green gaze turned to Roderich, smiling, "Was it you, Roderich?"

"Yes, actually. I wanted to convey sheer size," He explained, his stiff posture never faltering, "and size means stability, luxury, and above all, strength."

True to his sarcastic sense of humor, Arthur smiled and leaned on his elbow on the table, smiling sweetly as he'd done to Francis not thirty seconds before. "Do you know of Dr. Freud, Mr. Edelstien?" Roderich's confused look spoke for itself, and Arthur continued, "His ideas about the male preoccupation with size might be of particular interest to you."

Liam nearly burst out laughing, covering it up by coughing into his napkin, and Elizabeta was nodding and grinning in approval. Brittanny, however, wasn't amused in the least.

"What's gotten into you?" She muttered, disapproving of the young blonde. Finally, he'd had enough. He quietly excused himself and got up, fuming out of the lunchroom.

A level below, on the third class deck, Alfred had his sketch book out and was drawing a father and daughter looking at the waves together. He smiled at how her father told her fables about how waves were made, and of the mythical creatures that live far beneath them. As the little piece of sharpened charcoal made lines, and the lines became an image, Alfred couldn't help but wish he still had a family. Sure, he still had a brother, and a few distant cousins in Wisconsin, but he wished his parents were still alive. He missed his mother's stories and his father's cooking, and the way they both smiled at him.

He looked up once he was done sketching them out, at Feliciano, who was chatting with a woman in a brown corset dress and a dark green frock coat left to hang open. She had a tan riding cap pulled down over her forehead, nearly covering her green eyes. Her ginger hair fell in curls to her shoulders.

"This ship is-a nice, huh?" The cheery Italian said.

"Yeah, s'an Irish ship." She mumbled, taking a drag from her cigarette.

"Is English, no?" Feli asked, confused.

"Nah, was built in Ireland! Fifteen-thousand Irishmen built this ship. Solid as a rock; big Irish hands—" She cut herself off, blowing smoke as she saw a couple of stewards walk by with a group of various breeds of dogs on leashes. She snorted, "Typical. First-class dogs come down here to take a shite…" She took another drag from her cigarette.

"Lets us know where we rank in the scheme of things, right?" Alfred put in, chuckling softly.

"Like we could forget?" She grinned and exhaled smoke, holding out her hand for them to shake. "I'm Niamh Boyle…"

Alfred shook her hand, smiling at her, "Alfred F. Jones." She nodded and greeted him, then Feli as he introduced himself as well, "Feliciano."

Taking the mostly used cigarette out of her mouth, Niamh gestured to Alfred's drawing of the father and child with it. "You make any money with those drawings o' yours?"

Alfred was about to answer, when something—or someone, rather—caught his eye. He spaced out, any and all words escaping him.

A young man had come to lean on the rails surrounding the edge of the first class deck. He was definitely first class; dressed in a crisp black tuxedo with a green waistcoat and a black bow tie, with a black-and-green fedora to match. His hair was a frothy light blonde, perfectly clean and slightly rebellious in its neatly jagged cut. Vibrant green eyes were dull with annoyance and probably some emotional abuse as well.

Wondering what he was staring at, Niamh followed his gaze to the young blonde. At first, she was slightly confused, but slowly, she made the connection, and took another drag, "Ah, foregt it, boy-o. You'd more likely have angels fly out o' your arse than getting a second glance from him."

Alfred barely heard what she said. He was far more interested in the fact that this blonde actually _had_ given him a second look. The dullness and annoyance that those green eyes held before were blinked away, and now all they held was curiosity, as well as what Alfred hoped was interest. This man was beautiful, Alfred thought. He only wished he could talk to him, if only for a moment.

Then, just as it seemed they were having a moment, another man with golden blonde hair and a regal suit took his arm. The look the young man had been giving Alfred was gone just like that; replaced by contempt so obviously for the other man. The blonde stormed off, leaving the other to visibly sigh and follow him.

Alfred sighed to himself, regretting the circumstancres surrounding their almost-meeting.

* * *

Arthur was through. Clearly, there was nothing for him in this world anymore; not even his own mother. What did the aristocratic people see in this kind of life? There was no life at all. Cusioned, that was what it was. A life without meaning or purpose but to sit tall, talk politics, and look pretty.

_**I saw my whole life as if I'd already lived it: an endless parade of parties and cotilions, yachts and polo matches. Always the same narrow people, the same mindless chatter. I felt like I was standing at a great precipice, with no one to pull me back, no one who cared or even noticed.**_

That night, after coming back hysterical from the same cigars and brandy, he all but tore off his tuxedo jacket, bow tie, and everything else but his shirt, pants, and shoes. Then, he realized what he had to do. Sobbing, he ran out of the room and up to the boat deck, not caring who he pushed out of the way as he ran for the stern of the ship. Most passengers, if out on deck, just gave the lad an odd look. There couldn't have been three even, along the entire length of the ship, and his gasping and whimpering went unheard, swallowed by the cold night air as he plummeted to the back. Must get there.

A deck below to his left, a swirl of white, translucent smoke drifted lazily into the night. Alfred laid there—blue eyes reflecting the thick layers of stars in the Heavens, enjoying the night with only his jacket over himself, smoking idly, living his life. The clatter of footsteps was the only thing that drew him up into sitting, and then he glimpsed the gorgeous looking young man he'd seen on deck earlier that day. Coincidence? I think not.

The man was running for the back of the ship, almost stumbling blindly. Sobs wracked his body, as if something was horribly wrong. A hero could only do one thing. Alfred inhaled the smoke, grabbed his jacket, and ran after.


	4. You Jump, I Jump

**And here begins our romance story~ sorry about it sounding different every other paragraph; the first bits of this were taken from a Skype rp with the best writer ever~ Credit for Alfred's bits in the first part of this goes to xXSeraphSanctuaryXx. Thank you, FayFay QwQ ily bby**

Chapter 4

You Jump, I Jump

Arthur stopped at the last set of rails before the stern deck, doubling over slightly. This was the point of no return. He couldn't go back now, or he would be giving in to the sick monotony that was his life. He shakily opened the door to the raililng and stepped down onto the furthermost deck, not even bothering to shut the gate behind him. He walked to the back railing of the ship, his head swimming. He was finally free! But at what cost?

His hands were trying to sweat, but were unable to in the frosty air of the North Atlantic. He gripped the rail and, no regrets, began to climb over the back of the ship. He used a nearby lamp post as leverage as he slowly went over the edge, leaning forward over the dark, icy waters hundreds of feet below him.

And that was how Alfred found him. His British beauty, right up against the other side of the railing, one drop away from instant death, his slender fingers clinging on. Blue eyes reflected shock that such a well dressed, upper-class young man would be so like that. He didn't miss the expression on Arthur's face. He could tell the young man was afraid to die. What could have happened to him? Why was he so hysterical?

And so the hero made his move. "Don't do it," he called, his voice steady over the crash and roll of the waves. Arthur turned to look at him, and Alfred noted his porcelain neck, glowing in the moonlight, his pretty lips and his green eyes glowing too with fear.

"S-stay back!" Arthur said, his voice shaking. The sudden voice had startled him, and he had almost let go of the rail. Who was this guy? Even better, who did he _think_ he was, trying to tell Arthur what to do? This was Arthur's life, and he could do with it what he pleased.

"Don't come any closer!" Arthur warned, forcing his voice to sound brave. It was as brave as he was getting, hanging off the back of the largest ship in the world, a few muscle movements from suicide.

Alfred thought quick, mind racing and wondering at what on earth he could do now as he saw the most beautiful young man in his life just lean over that railing. A guy who was rich and beautiful—well, why would he be doing that? Why would he try and kill himself, when he was so clearly afraid, with frozen tear tracts, who looked like the grief was about to crush his slender form?

"Come on, really. Just give me your hand. I'll pull you back over." Alfred inched closer, hoping that his face seemed innocent enough. Trustworthy, maybe.

The young man's voice was quivering, those thick eyebrows furrowed with anxiety. Almost despair, it seemed, as though the world had taken him and squeezed and crushed dream after dream of his. His pale blonde locks flew in the wind, glowing almost incandescent in the moonlight. "N-no! Stay where you are. I mean it... I'll let go!" he threatened.

Alfred sounded so much more confident than he felt. His cigarette was tossed into the water, and then there was Alfred right next to that young man, that young sir who was certainly holding on tight for a man who was supposedly going to jump and die. Blue eyes stared into green. "No, you won't."

Arthur's eyebrows furrowed, and he looked at the man like he was crazy, getting a good look at him for the first time: eyes bluer than the sky and deeper than the sea, hair that looked like it had kissed the sun itself, perfectly toned and tanned features... This man was gorgeous, and Arthur was stricken speechless for a second.

When fianlly found his vocal cords again, he sputtered, "Wha—?! Yes I will! Don't presume to tell me what I will and will not do, you don't know me!" Who did he think he was?!

Arthur was shaking so badly, he wanted to throw up. He leaned back over the water, trying to choke back a sob. All he needed to do was let go. Just let go, and it would all be over. A weightless fall to the unforgiving pull of the black, icy waters beneath him, then a crushing silence as his world would finally give out. That was it; it was simple.

So... why did it feel like his fingers were welded into the cold metal railing? Why couldn't he do it? Why didn't he have the nerve to let it all go? He would feel so much better if—… Then, that face came to his mind again: the face of the man standing behind him. He was a complete stranger, and a poor-looking one at that, why did he care about Arthur, the rich kid about to jump off the grandest ship in the world? And why did Arthur turn back to look at him?

"Well…" Alfred shrugged, "You would've done it already."

That one hit home. If Arthur was going to do this, he would have to do it now. "You were distracting me! Go away!" He said, leaning back over the water and trying to prepare himself for the jump. Just relax, deep breaths, you can do this, Arthur.

"Well, hey. Don't jump. If you jump now—" Alfred held his hands up, and those glorious blues fastened onto Arthur. He started to undress, sighing and taking off his jacket, where it flumped down onto the deck floor, and he emptied his pocket of his lighter and his smokes, tugging on his laces and pulling off his shoes. Thunk, thunk; they dropped on the wooden deck. "...I'm gonna have to come in there after you. I'm a witness now, I can't just walk away."

"Yes you can, don't be absurd..." Arthur swallowed. His own death was fine, but the death of someone else? Who probably had a family and friends that would actually miss him? He couldn't let someone like that just kill themselves. Of course, it wouldn't matter if Arthur died—that was the whole point of this. But if this man jumped with him... Arthur already felt guilty. He couldn't be the cause of someone's death, that would make him a murderer, even in death. "You'll be killed..."

"I'm a good swimmer."

"The fall alone would kill you!"

"It would hurt, I'm not saying it wouldn't," Alfred shook his head solemnly, and stepped in closed, his face resigned like he was going to jump. Right after him. He stepped all the way up too the pole he was clutching onto. "To tell you the truth, I'm more concerned of that water being so cold."

Arthur hesitated for the third time that night. "Cold?" he asked, as if it were a silly notion, "How cold?" It wouldn't matter, anyway, he was still going to—or was he? He'd thought the impact would shatter his spine into little splinters... but what _if _the fall didn't kill him? Ugh, then he'd have to drown himself before the cold got to him... That would just be a pain.

"Freezing. Maybe a couple degrees over. " Alfred's solemn blue eyes were starry in this light, as he turned to Arthur. His hands were held out—and he reached for the young male's. "You ever been to Wisconsin?

Confused, Arthur's eyebrows furrowed as he looked at Alfred, "…wot?"

"They have some of the coldest winters around. I grew up there, near Chippewa Falls. I used to go ice fishing with my dad out on Lake Wissota. Ice fishing is when you—"

"I know what ice fishing is!" came the indigniant (if, indeed, someone clutching onto life from a pole could sound indigniant) reply.

Alfred nodded defensively, eyebrows up. "Woah, okay, sorry. Just, it seemed you were kind of an indoors kind of guy. Anyway, I fell in once when I was little, and I'm telling you; water that cold, like right down there? It hits you like a thousand knives stabbing you all over your body. You can't breathe… Can't think… At least not about anything but the pain."

Arthur really needed to stop hesitating. He was really starting to regret his decision to jump. He kept trying to remind himself of all the reasons he was trying to go over, but the water swirling below him started to look less and less inviting. However, he kept a poker face, to conceal this inner turmoil from this stranger.

Alfred sighed, "That's why I'm not looking forward to jumping in there after you. Like I said, I'm involved; I don't have a choice." Arthur looked back at him again, his seemingly hopeless green eyes meeting Alfred's pleading blue ones. Guilt welled up in him, and he couldn't look away. "So I'm kinda hoping you'll come back over and get me off the hook…? Please?"

Arthur swallowed, but his stubbornness perservered. "You're crazy." His confidence, however, didn't.

"That's what everyone says, but…" Alfred shrugged, leaning in close to Arthur's ear to whisper, "With all due respect, I'm not the one hanging off the back of a ship here."

With that, Arthur's tenacity evaporated. He started to become scared, now gripping the rail with white knuckles. Even so, he was paralyzed now with fear and indecision. What if he slipped and didn't mean to? Then he'd condemn them both. No one was back there to notice that they had both fallen overboard, and the freezing water would surely overpower them and kill them together.

"Come on, give me your hand." Glancing back again, Arthur saw Alfred reach out to him, and a thought reached his mind.

None of the others truly cared about him. To his mother, he was just a way to get rich again and stay in the lap of luxury. To Francis, he was a trophy husband and a perfect little toy. To everyone else in 'society', he was just another pretty, rich face, not worth much more than a few good pictures.

But here was one person who cared. This third class man, a man whom didn't even know Arthur's name and vice versa, cared. This man didn't want to see Arthur get hurt. He would have jumped after him, if Arthur had let go. Not even Francis would have done that, and he was going to be his husband in a few months.

"You don't want to do this."

And he didn't. He really didn't. If one person cared, maybe this person was worth listening to. If he didn't listen to anyone else in his entire life, he was going to listen to this person.

Carefully, shakily, Arthur's hand let go of the rail, and shakily took Alfred's. His hands were warm compared to Arthur's, who had been gripping the ice-cold bar. Without looking down—to keep his head and not freak out over the height of the massive ship—Arthur slowly turned around on the rail. He finally got a good view of Alfred, who was more gorgeous than the glances he got from before revealed. Just the way he was built—strong shoulders, thick neck, a chiseled but slightly childish face, and those eyes—made Arthur wonder if the man was an angel rather than just a simple third-class passenger.

"Whew," Alfred said with a small smile, "That was close, huh?" Arthur scoffed ironically, and Alfred continued, shaking his hand, "I'm Alfred F. Jones."

"Arthur Ignatius Kirkland…" Arthur said, smiling softly.

"I might have to get you to write that one down for me," Alfred chuckled, getting a firm grip on Arthur's hand as he tried to pull him back over the rail, "Come on…"

Smiling, Arthur began to feel good enough to move. He took Alfred's hand, gripping it firmly and trying to forget the fact that he was still hanging off the back of a ship. He stepped up onto the next bar, but he made one fatal mistake in misjudging how high the bar was. The rubber on the bottom of his shoes had no traction on the slick metal bar, and his foot slipped.

Arthur screamed as he dangled over the open ocean, hanging on only to Alfred's hand. Alfred grunted with effort as he was nearly pulled over the side with him. He braced himself on the railing, his muscles straining to keep Arthur's hand from slipping.

"I've got you!" Alfred shouted down to Arthur, who was trying to grab the bars and pull himself back up. Arthur screamed for help, starting to panic as he kept failing to grab the bars. He flailed, desperately trying to get a hold on something. Why couldn't this have happened when he actually _wanted_ to die? He didn't want to jump anymore!

"Listen, Arthur, listen to me!" For an instant, Arthur stopped flailing and looked up at him, "I won't let you go. Now, pull yourself up, come on!"

Arthur nodded dumbly, and forced his shaking fingers to clamp around the bottom bar, stopping his flailing. Alfred tensed up the muscles in his arm and heaved upward, dragging Arthur up higher so he could grab onto the next bar. Once Arthur had a firm grip on the second bar, Alfred leaned over and wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling him up and over the rest of the way. They tumbled onto the deck, Alfred landing on top of Arthur, both of them wheezing. Arthur was shaking, probably suffering from shock.

As this was going on, neither of them heard the thumping of three officers running to the 'rescue'. They had heard Arthur screaming, and when they arrived, the two men were in such a compromising position that none of the officers needed to question it. Alfred had no boots on, no jacket on, and there were cigarettes scattered all over the deck. Alfred's thick arms were locked around Arthur, as they had been when he pulled him back over the rails. The smaller man was still shaking, staring at Alfred in shock. His formerly crisp white shirt had come untucked and lost a button at some point, leaving a teeny strip of his pale stomach exposed. Immediately as he saw the officers running over, Alfred let go of Arthur and stood up. It didn't help his situation. As soon as the lead officer took notice of what was going on, he shouted at the tall American:

"You stand back, and don't move an inch!" Then, turning to another officer, he added, "Fetch the master-at-arms!"

Before Alfred knew it, his hands were being cuffed behind his back, and he was being yelled at in French by Arthur's fiance. He only blinked at him, having not learned very much French, dispite his many visits to Paris in the past. Finally, he switched to English.

"How dare you attack my fiance!" He shouted, his voice shrill, "What did you think you were doing?! Did you think you would be successful?!"

Alfred's eyes drifted over to Arthur, who was sitting on a bench ten feet away. He had refused a blanket that his fiance's valet had offered, but he was sipping brandy out of a flask to try and calm himself. Arthur was engaged? Damn it. Alfred had hoped he'd finally found someone different like him, but it was too good to be true.

"Look at me, you lecher!" Francis nearly screeched, smacking Alfred across the face. It was too weak to hurt, but still enough to sting. Alfred's eyes moved back to him, and Arthur got back up, sighing.

"Francis, leave him alone…" Arthur said, taking his fiance's arm. The Frenchman sputtered, looking up at the Briton. "It was an accident."

"An… An accident?" The notion confused Francis, who furrowed his eyebrows.

"Yeah… Stupid, really," Arthur said, glancing at Alfred, "I was leaning over and I slipped."

Blinking, Francis waited for him to continue, and he did, "I was leaning too far over, and I thought I saw something, and I slipped. I would have gone overboard, but thank God Mr. Jones was there, and he saved me. He nearly went over himself. I'm sorry for the confusion."

"Was that it?" The Master-at-arms asked Alfred, scowling. Alfred looked at Arthur. His green eyes were pleading with him, _don't tell them, please_. After a moment of hesitation, Alfred nodded, finally breaking eye contact with the gorgeous Brit.

"Yeah… yeah, that was pretty much it…"

"Well…" Francis, a bit flustered, looked from Arthur back to Alfred, "I'm so sorry, I misunderstood."

Alfred shrugged, a little twisted smile on his lips, "S'alright, I woulda done the same thing if it was my fiance…" He looked at Arthur, as if he were talking directly to him. A small smile on his face, Arthur looked away. Finally thinking of his fiance and not the man who had just saved him, Francis took the blanket from Antonio and wrapped it around Arthur's shoulders.

"Come on, amour, let's get you inside; you must be freezing…" He said, putting his arm around his shoulders. Arthur cocked an eyebrow at him.

"So… you're _not_ going to thank the man that just saved my life?" He said, frowning and looking back at the American as he was putting his thick jacket back on.

"Oui? My apologies." Francis looked at Antonio, nodding at Alfred, "I think a twenty should do it."

Arthur snorted, crossing his arms, "Is that the going rate for saving your future husband?" If that was all Alfred got, Arthur would rather have 'saved' himself and made some money.

"Arthur is displeased? Mon dieu, what to do…?" Francis thought to himself, humming, then he walked over to Alfred, putting on a smile that was obviously fake, "Perhaps… You would like to join us for dinner tomorrow evening? To regale our group with your heroic tale?"

Spend another night eating nothing but bread and soup broth, or spend it with the new person at the center of his interests eating a first-class meal on the grandest ship in the world? The answer was obvious.

"Sure," Alfred said, "count me in."

As Francis smiled and bid Alfred farewell, Arthur was looking straight at him. They locked eyes for the hundredth time that night, and Alfred gave him a flirty little half-smile, as if he knew. Arthur began to walk back to the first class entrance with his fiance, he looked back at Alfred one last time. For some reason, Arthur could tell he knew, and he finally accepted it for the first time in his life.

Growing up, Arthur wasn't like other boys, much less his brothers. He was much higher maintenance. He played by himself, and never gave girls a second glance. Finally, within the past year in returning to England from an extended stay in America, he'd learned a new classification of 'different', and he'd finally accepted it. Even though he knew society would never accept it.

He liked men. Even in growing to know this more, he had begun to dislike his engagement. He was very sure that Francis didn't love him. Now, in meeting that man, Arthur thought he'd found another someone like him. In fact, he was sure of it.

Back in his stateroom, he was sitting in front of a mirror, thinking about this. Up until now, he hadn't met a single person that he thought would understand and maybe even share these beliefs. He'd wanted to kill himself because he was alone; because no one would miss him. But Alfred had proved that he wasn't alone. One person understood, and that one person was enough to pull him back.

The last person he wanted to see at that moment was Francis, and, of course, he knocked before opening the door and standing in the doorway. He only had a dress shirt (the top three buttons undone, of course) and pants on, and his face was riddled with concern. "I know you've been melancholy, Arthur." When he didn't reply, Francis came further into the room and continued, "I don't pretend to know why."

Arthur sighed and looked back at him, too tired to smile. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't give me that, Arthur," He stated firmly, standing next to him, "You have cold feet, don't you? You don't want to get married so soon."

_Yes, that's obviously it, you moron._ Arthur sighed, "You caught me… It's just cold feet…"

The Frenchman chuckled softly and turned Arthur's head to look at him, stroking his cheek, "It's okay, amour… I'm nervous too…" as a second thought, he took a leather box from under his arm and added, "I have something for you. I was going to save it for a wedding gift, but I thought it might help with early jitters…" as he was explaing this, he unlatched the leather box and opened it, revealing the biggest blue rock Arthur had ever seen.

"…It's a necklace, Francis." Trying to hide his amazement at the giant jewel—a jewel he was sure was the most expensive rock on the planet—he went right ahead and used his famous sarcasm.

"Oui, it may look like a piece of jewelry to you," he said, chuckling, "Men are men, I know, I am one… _But_ this diamond, this gorgeous, rare diamond was worn by Louis XVI himself."

"This is a bloody _diamond?"_ This time, Arthur couldn't hide his astonishment. He lifted the stone out of the box and looked at it closely, "For the love of Christ! This thing is _heavy_…"

Francis chuckled, taking it from him and putting it around his neck, "56 carrots to be exact… And they called it _Le Cœur de la Mer_."

"_The Heart of the Ocean_…" Arthur mumbled, regrettably remembering his years of French in school.

"Oui… It looks so beautiful on you, mon cher…"

"I'm sure it would look better on me if I were a woman, like it was made for."

"I told you it was worn by a king!"

"King of France. Not much different."

Francis rolled his eyes, "You and your sarcasm… My point is that it was made for and worn only by royalty." He looked him in the eye, and without a hint of irony in his voice said (though Arthur just about burst out laughing when he said it), "We are royalty, Arthur."

No wonder he acted like a princess. Arthur almost rolled his eyes, but refrained from doing so as he leaned over him, leaning on the arms of the chair he sat in. He could feel the cold metal of the diamond-studded chain constricting around his throat like a hungry snake, threatening to devour him.

The Frenchman was in his face. He had backed up as far as he could, swallowing nervously. He had a slightly predatory look in his dark blue eyes as he purred, "There is nothing I couldn't give you… There's nothing I'd deny you… If you would not deny me," the glint in his eyes vanished, and his look became innocent and pleading. "Won't you open your heart to me, cher?"

Arthur didn't answer. It was incredibly hard to swallow now. His breaths came in short, as he felt the chain getting tighter and tighter around his neck.

Soon, he knew, it would choke him out.


	5. And Spit Like a Man

**Just realized I haven't uploaded anything here in almost a month... welp. o3o**

**Warnings for this chapter: USUK feels, deleted scene, spitting. No, like… literal spitting.**

Chapter 5

Spit Like a Man

The next afternoon, Alfred was down in the third-class lounge with Feliciano and Niamh, drawing again. Niamh was watching him, smoking another cigarette. She occasionally asked him a question, which he answered without much hesitation. Feliciano, true to his flirtatious nature, was trying to talk sweet to an awkward-looking German woman with very short blonde hair. For once, it seemed that Feli had met his match. As the cheery Italian man tried to flirt with her, she shot serious replies back to him. But he didn't give up, and Alfred silently cheered him on.

The lounge was slightly crowded, with a man playing a piano in the corner. The background noise in the room was a dull roar, with the passengers talking to each other idly. It was a lot more lively than first class, Alfred thought. He grinned and looked down at his drawing.

Suddenly, there were a pair of shoes on the staircase that didn't belong. Shiny black contrasted against muddy brown, as the rest of the newcomer was revealed. Silence spread like the plague as people took notice of the out-of-place suit and waistcoat and tie, then finally the perfectly groomed blonde head ducked into the cramped space. Curious and slightly astonished eyes turned to stare at the first class man that walked into their midst, looking around. Finally spotting the person he was looking for, Arthur made his way to the other end of the room, where Alfred was sitting, facing away from him. Niamh tipped her hat back, her green eyes widening in surprise. She punched Alfred in the arm, and as he turned around to whine at her, his eyes fell on Arthur, who now looked incredibly uncomfortable with everyone staring at him.

"Hello, Mr. Jones, um…" He looked around, then back at Alfred, "Do you mind if I… talk with you?"

Alfred, without speaking a word, gestured to the tiny bit of bench that was open next to him. Arhtur shook his head and added, "Alone?"

"Yeah, sure…" Alfred nodded, closing his book and tucking it under his arm. He got up and gestured for Arthur to lead the way, grateful to be leaving that stuffy room, and that everyone had stopped staring at him.

The two of them spent an hour walking the boat deck, talking about anything and everything that came to mind. It was very small talk, as if they were seriously beating around the bush. And they were.

"Well, I've been on my own since I was fifteen; since my folks died," Alfred was saying, "And I had no brothers or sisters in that part of the country—well… I do have a brother, but he was living with the rest of my family. Anyway, I lit on out of there and haven't been back since. You can just call me a tumbleweed blowing in the wind." After a short pause and a smile from Arthur, he added, "Well, Arthur, we've walked about a mile around this boat deck chewing over how great the weather's been and how I grew up, but… I reckon that's not why you came looking for me, is it?"

Arthur glanced down at his hands as he fidgeted nervously, trying to think of the right words to put together. "…Mr. Jones, I—"

"Alfred." Alfred corrected him with a small nod.

"Alfred… Well, I want to thank you for what you did. Not just for pulling me back, but… for your discretion."

Without hesitation, Alfred smiled and nodded, "You're very welcome, of course."

Arthur sighed, and Alfred had a feeling the shorter man didn't take the smile the way it was intended. This was a man who had probably been through hell and back, dispite the fact that he had it well off. A man who, dispite his pain, probably had no one to share it with. Why else, Alfred reasoned, would he put himself out of his way just to talk to Alfred, to thank him?

"Look," the disillusioned Brit said, "I know what you must be thinking. 'Poor little rich bloke, what does he know about misery?'"

Alfred shook his head, a rare serious look on his face, "No. That's not what I was thinking at all. What I was thinking was: 'What could've happened to this guy to make him think that he had no other way out?'"

Arthur—any illusion that this man didn't really care completely gone— looked slightly stunned for a moment, then quietly regained himself. Then, his cares fluttering away, he let down his barrier and let all his pent up emotion out, taking hold of the railing to steady himself. "It was… It was everything. My whole world, and all the people in it. The inertia of my life was plunging ahead, and I was completely powerless to stop it." As he was saying this, he spun the band around that had been backward on his left ring finger, revealing a giant cluster of diamonds. Alfred quickly connected the dots, and took a look at the massive ring.

"Jesus Christ, look at that thing! You would have gone straight to the bottom." He crossed his arms, making sure not to drop his sketch book.

Arthur sighed sadly, looking down at it and turning it back around so the diamonds were hidden. "Five hundred invitations have gone out. All of New York's and Philadelphia's society will be there. And all the while I feel I'm standing in the middle of a crowded room screaming at the top of my blooming lungs and no one even looks up!"

Nodding, Alfred asked, "You love him?"

Arthur paused, taken aback, "Excuse me?"

"Do you love him?"

"…you're being very rude. You shouldn't be asking me this!" Arthur tried to keep his voice low.

"It's a simple question: do you love the guy or not?" He asked again, even though he already knew the answer. If Arthur really had loved this guy—whomever it was that he was going to marry—he would have replied right away.

"This is not a suitable conversation." Arthur snorted, looking around.

"Why can't you just answer the question?"

He scoffed, running his hands through his hair. "This is absurd! You don't know me, and I don't know me, and we are not having this conversation at all! You are rude and uncouth and presumptuous, and _I_ am leaving now. Alfred, Mr. Jones, it's been a pleasure," Arthur forcibly shook Alfred's hand, and as soon as they started shaking hands, they didn't stop, "I sought you out to thank you, and now I have thanked you, and—"

"And you've insulted me." Alfred finished, smiling through his frustration.

"Well, you deserved it."

"Right."

"Right."

Finally, Arthur broke their handlock, turning to leave. Then, he stopped, as if he remembered something. "Wait, wait, I don't have to leave," He said, furrowing his eyebrows, "This is _my_ part of the ship; _you_ leave." He held out his arm, pointing out toward the 3rd class boundary.

Alfred's eyebrows shot up, and he hung on one of the ship's ropes, "Well, well, well! Now who's being rude?"

Arthur had run out of retorts, so all that came out of his mouth when he opened it was another scoff. Then, desperate to change the subject, Arthur grabbed the sketch book Alfred was carrying under his arm still. "What is this stupid thing you're carrying around?" Arthur opened the book, and as he flipped through it, his annoyance for the taller man evaporated. He looked back and forth between the pages and their owner, asking, "So… are you an artist or something?" Whatever was left of his annoyance became interest, as his eyes trailed over the sketched lines and shaded areas that, when put together, immortalized life in drawings. "These are… These are very good… More than that, even," Arthur looked up at Alfred as he sat in a deck chair, "Alfred, these are amazing…"

Chuckling, Alfred sat down in the chair next to Arthur, silently noting how cute the brit looked when his eyes were filled with wonder. He shrugged off the compliment, used to it by now. "Ah, they didn't think too much of them in ol' Pear-ee."

"Paris? Damn, you get around well, for a—… well, considering your limited means—"

Laughing now, Alfred shook his head, "Go on, a poor guy; you can say it."

Sheepishly, Arthur went on to the next page in the book, which held a picture of a woman lying naked, her head rested in her hand. She had a cigarette in her mouth, and there were more of them scattered around her elbow. Arthur raised his eyebrows and smirked at the American, who ran his hand through his hair, clearing his throat to try and cover up his embarrassment.

"Well, well, well," Arthur chuckled as he flipped through the next few pages, which were full of drawings of both men and women, all nude. "These were drawn from life, yeah?"

"Yeah, that's the good thing about Paris," Alfred looked back at him, smirking slightly, "Lots of people willing to take their clothes off."

"And you don't discriminate at all based on gender, I like that…" Arthur muttered, just loud enough that Alfred heard. He smiled and turned on the deck chair to face Arthur.

"Of course not; I like all types of people, men and women alike."

Arthur looked at him for a moment before a warm smile crept onto his face. "That's good…" He only broke away from their locked gaze when a man walked by them, and he felt the need to cover up the nudes on the paper. When the man was gone, Arthur flipped the page again, and noticed multiple similarities between this and a couple other drawings.

"You liked this woman," He remarked, "You used her several times."

"She had beautiful hands, see? That's all." Alfred turned the page this time, showing Arthur what he assumed was a sketch of the woman's hands.

"Bull shite! You must have had a love affair with her."

Alfred laughed and shook his head, "No, no, just with her hands. I'm not too fond of girls in the first place, and she was a one-legged prostitute." He flipped the page again, showing Arthur a full-body drawing of the woman. Arthur's eyes nearly bugged out of his head, and he sputtered, laughing to try not to snort in surprise. He cocked his head sideways to try and see it better.

"Ah, she had a good sense of humor, though." Alfred smiled at the thought, then flipped the page again, to a picture of a woman in raggedy clothes, wearing a box load of jewelry. "And this lady! She used to sit at a bar every night, wearing every piece of jewelry she had, just waiting for her long-lost love. I called her Madame Bijoux. See how her clothes are all moth eaten?" Alfred looked at Arthur, only to find that the Brit was looking at him and not at the page.

"You have a gift, Alfred. You see people."

"I see you." Alfred smiled.

Arhur grinned and held his head high, "And?"

"And you wouldn't have jumped."

Arthur's grin faded, and he looked at Alfred, his outlook completely changed.

In one of the first class tea rooms, Mr. Edelstein was sitting with the captain of the ship, Captain Kiku Honda, a cigarette in his hand. The latter was built small, with short, jet black hair that hung in linear strands around his face. He wore a simple black suit, chosen over his more prefferable comfortable kimono in light of the fact that there were very few people on the ship that dressed like that. The passengers—who were mostly Western in origin (Western to him meant anywhere west of China)—might look at him funny if he did.

"You've not yet lit the last four boilers?" Roderich asked, looking up from a paper Kiku had given him.

"No, I do not see the need," the captain said, folding his hands in his lap, "We are making excellent time."

Roderich sighed in slight annoyance and folded the paper up. "The press knows the size of _Titanic_. Now I want them to marvel at her speed. We must surprise them; give them something new to print," He took a drag, as the neutral expression on Kiku's face slowly turned into one of concern, "This maiden voyage of Titanic must make headlines."

"Roderich-san," Kiku said, very serious now, "I would very much prefer not to push the engines until they have been properly run in."

Sighing through his nose, the Austrian nodded, "As I'm just a passenger, I'll leave it to your good offices to decide what's best. But wouldn't it be a glorious end to your first crossing if we were to get into New York on Tuesday night and surprise them all? Kick start your career as a naval captain, yes?"

The small Japanese man was caught. He didn't have it in him to disagree, and he knew that Roderich knew it. He didn't have to say a word, the other knew just by the silence that he would get the headlines he wanted. Roderich didn't smile, only took another drag from his cigarette.

"Good man."

Back up on the boat deck, Arthur was listening to the story of Alfred's life, more interested than ever. They had made their way down the deck a few hundred feet, to where they could see the sunset perfectly. But Arthur had no interest in watching the sunset, more so in learning about this fascinating man.

"So after that I worked on a squid boat in Monterey," Alfred was saying, "Then I went down to Los Angeles to the pier in Santa Monica and started doing portraits there for ten cents apiece."

Arthur sighed dreamily, turning his gaze to the orange sky, "It's not bleeding fair. Why can't I be like you, Alfred? Just head out for the horizon whenever I feel like it? My life's being lived for me, and here you are, a tumbleweed, going wherever the wind takes you."

"What's stopping you? It's your life." Alfred smiled softly at him.

Arthur snorted, "My mum, that's what's stopping me. She can't live without her hundred-dollar dresses and damned caviar… I sometimes wish I could just leave her behind… But…" Arthur lost the anger at the world for a moment, and his expression saddened, "I… I can't. Not after all she's been through. She may seem like a posh snoot, but it's only because she's had everything ripped away from her in her life, and… She doesn't want to be left alone, with no money or possessions to her name, at the end of her life." Arthur looked down and realized he had been wringing his hands, "I don't blame her for wanting the best life can give her… I'm all she has…"

Alfred nodded, understanding. "I get it; you don't want to have to leave her behind. It's a hard life out there." Arthur chuckled and nodded, saying nothing. Then, to lighten the mood, Alfred nudged him and added jokingly, "Besides, there's no caviar out there, in the wanderer's world."

Arthur snorted, "I happen to hate caviar. It's disgusting."

Alfred laughed, flashing his perfect white teeth, "And what would you do, if you weren't just a spoiled little rich boy?"

Arthur grinned and stretched out his arms, "Maybe a dancer, wild and free and living!" Laughing, he spotted a man cranking a camera, filming someone else on deck, and went to go stand in front of it, "Or a moving picture actor! Have my face on every silver screen! Oh, hell, I don't care what I do, I just want to be free!" He moved away from the camera, back towards Alfred. As he did, a steward came up to him.

"Sir, might I bring you something?" He asked.

Arthur, aghast, snapped at the poor man, "No!" Just the look on the Brit's face was enough to make Alfred burst out laughing. Sheepishly, Arthur walked back over to stand next to him, grinning.

"That feel good?" Alfred grinned.

Arthur nodded, a new pleasure in the feeling of being able to say 'no' rising in his chest. He leaned on the railing for a second, and a thought came to him.

"Say, Alfred?"

"Mmhm?"

"What if… well, let's say we'll go there sometime, to that pier, even if all we ever do is talk about it."

"Nah, we'll do it!" Alfred grinned at him, "We really will. We'll drink cheep beer, and ride the roller coaster till we throw up," Arthur laughed at this, and Alfred continued, "Then we'll ride horses on the beach, right in the surf. But you have to actually ride it; I'll teach you to ride like a real cowboy."

Arthur grinned his widest, "Teach me to ride like a man."

"And chew tobacco like a man." Alfred added, speaking with a southern twang to his voice.

Arthur tried to mimic that accent, laughing, "And… spit like a man!"

"What, they didn't teach you that in finishing school?"

"Hell no!"

"You know what? Come on." Looking around, Alfred took Arthur's arm and brought him over to an enclosed section of the boat deck, much to the shorter blonde's protest.

"No, Alfred, no!"

"Come on, let's do it!"

"Damn it, Alfred, no! I couldn't possibly—"

But they were already standing at the rail. Arthur looked around nervously, while Alfred set down his drawings.

"Watch closely." He said, then he snorted and shot a perfect loogey over the side of the rail.

"That's disgusting!" Arthur cried.

Alfred nodded at him, "Come on; your turn."

Looking around again to make sure no one was watching, Arthur leaned over and spat a teeny bit.

"Ugh, that was pitiful! Come on, you really gotta hawk it back," Demonstrating, Alfred grabbed the rail and leaned back, "Get some leverage; use your arms, arc your neck…" And he spat again, much like the first time. Arthur tried to copy him in 'hawking it back', and Alfred pointed to the trajectory of his spit. "You see the range on that thing?"

This time, Arthur actually tried to spit, and managed to shoot it a bit further than he had before. Alfred complimented on the improvement, and was about to show the Brit how to do it again, but Arthur's eye caught on a group of women—including his mother and Lizzy—and he shook Alfred's arm. The American noticed and choked down his loogey, unaware of the bit of spit that lingered on his chin.

"Mummy!" Arthur cried, his voice higher than usual. He stepped away from the other, addressing his mother, "May I introduce Alfred F. Jones?" While Britanny's eyes were on her son, Lizzy gave Alfred a look, motioning for him to wipe his chin. He did, clearing his throat and smiling at the ladies. Arthur began telling them the tale of how Alfred saved him, and their thoughts of him just as a lowly commoner faded. All, that is, except one.

_**The others were gracious and curious about the man who'd saved my life. But my mother looked at him like an insect. A dangerous insect, which must be squashed quickly.**_

"Well, Alfred," Lizzy said, smiling, "It looks like you're a good man to have around in a sticky spot."

Just as she finished saying this, a man near them began blowing a bugle, announcing that dinner was about to start. Lizzy rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips.

"Why do they insist on announcing dinner like a damn cavalry charge?" She complained.

"We ought to go get dressed, Mother." Arthur said, starting to lead his mother off. Then he looked back at Alfred and added, "See you at dinner, Alfred." Arthur could almost feel those blue eyes locked on his back as he walked away.

"Alfred? Alfred!" Snapping out of it, Alfred turned his head and noticed that Lizzy hadn't gone with them. "Do you have the slightest comprehension of what you're doing?" She asked.

"No, not really." Alfred chuckled.

"Well, you're about to go into the snake pit," She frowned, looking him over, "What are you planning on wearing?" When he gestured to the tan slacks, suspenders, and brown shirt he was already wearing, she sighed. "I figured. Come on."


	6. Parties

**Yes, I know, I should be updating one of my other stories but HNN SENIOR YEAR AND COLLEGE APPLICATIONS- SCREW YOU TOO, ACT.**

**SO! Parties in this chapter. Francis being a douche in both this one and the next. Sorry to all the France fans out there; I'm obligated by the storyline to make him a total ass.**

**THIS IS IMPORTANT. I need you guys to review and tell me whether or not I should include an actual sex scene in this story. Notice, even without a sex scene, there will be the scene in the car with the two of them naked. Let me know! I'm fine with either, but might I want to try my hand at a little smut, just to have that on my repertoire.**

**Warnings for this chapter: …not much. BL, France being an ass, "underage drinking"? I guess it wasn't underaged at the time, but still.**

**DON'T OWN**

Chapter 6

Parties

Ten minutes later, Alfred was checking himself over in the mirror in Lizzy's stateroom. He was wearing a brand new tuxedo, and his hair had been slicked back with a boatload of hair gel, the only hair untouched was his little cowlick that wouldn't stay down no matter how much product they used on it.

"I was right!" Lizzy grinned, patting Alfred's shoulders, "You and my husband are about the same size!"

"Pretty close," Alfred said, adjusting his cuffs.

"You shine up like a new penny." She said, laughing and patting his arms. "Now you're ready, go on down to the dining hall, I'll meet you there." Alfred nodded, slipping into a pair of shiny black shoes and leaving the room.

Once he found his way, it was almost as if he'd stepped into a dream. As he approached the main stairwell, a steward opened the door for him, bidding him a good evening. Alfred couldn't help but rubberneck a bit, just to see the ornate paintings that hung on the walls, or the fine wood carvings on the pillars and banisters. There were gold and metal bars twisting and curling their way underneath the banisters, and hanging from the ceiling was a beautfiul crystal chandelier. The dome roof was frosted glass, with geometric steel supports. It shrouded the stairs in a glowing light, as if they were really underwater.

Alfred descended the stairs slowly, trying to take everything in. From the dome, to the wood carvings, to the cherubs at the end of the railing, and even the first class people standing around, everything was simply amazing.

He waited at the end of the staircase, leaning with crossed arms against a pillar. Then he looked around, and saw that the other men were behaving much differently. He tried to mimic them, so he didn't stick out so much. He stood up as straight as he could, uncrossed his arms again, and folded one comfortably behind his back. He held his head up high, and almost felt like he was actually important.

While he was doing this, he saw Arthur's mother and his fiancé descending the stairs, chatting.

"There are several thousand tons of Bonnefoy Steel in this very ship," Francis was saying.

Britanny smiled a bit and nodded, asking, "Which part?"

Francis chuckled, "All the right ones, of course, Madame Kirkland."

"Then we'll know who to hold accountable if there's a problem. Where's my son?" She looked around as the two of them passed Alfred without even a glance in his direction. He felt like an idiot, waving at them as they walked right by him.

As he continued mimicing the other male first class passengers, he didn't notice that Arthur was halfway down the stairs already. The young Brit had changed into a long, white tailcoat, with a green shirt and matching waistcoat underneath. The inside of his tailcoat was lined with pale gold satin, and a pair of diamond cufflinks glinted in the glowing light. Those emerald eyes were trained on Alfred, who looked back at him, blinking as if he thought he was in a dream. The two met at the bottom wordlessly, and Alfred took Arthur's hand and kissed it.

The two smiled at each other for a moment, before Alfred broke into a grin and said, "I saw that in a nickelodeon once and I always wanted to do it." The two of them chuckled, and Alfred led the way, walking as exaggerated as he could to make Arthur laugh. As they got closer to Francis and Mrs. Kirkland, Arthur tapped Francis on the shoulder to get his attention.

"Francis, surely you remember Mr. Jones?" He asked.

Francis blinked, looking thoroughly and genuinely shocked, "Jones? That's amazing! You could almost pass for a gentleman."

Alfred shrugged, "Almost."

Turning to offer Britanny his arm, he smiled and remarked, "Extraordinary." With that, the four of them made their way into the dining hall. Arthur hung back with Alfred and pointed out the aristocrats to him, introducing them all by name. As he was finishing, Lizzy came up to the two of them, now in an evening gown.

"Care to escort a lady to dinner?" She asked, grinning at Alfred.

"Certainly." He said, taking her arm and smiling. Arthur chuckled and lead the way to the dinner table, which contained the same people Arthur had had lunch with the day before.

_**He must have been nervous, but he never faltered. I almost fell in love on the spot, he was so confident and charming. They assumed he was one of them; heir to a railroad fortune, perhaps. New Money, obviously, but still a member of the club. Mummy, of course, could always be counted upon.**_

"Tell us of the accomodations in steerage, Mr. Jones," Britanny said, a smile on her lips and an almost superior glint in her eye, "I hear they're quite good on this ship."

Alfred, instead of looking embarrased, smiled and came right back, "The best I've seen, ma'am. Hardly any rats."

A chuckle went around the table, and Francis began to explain, "Mr. Jones is joining us from the Third Class; he was of some assistance to my fiancé last night."

"It turns out that Mr. Jones is quite the fine artist," Arthur added, smiling, "I had the marvelous pleasure of being able to see some of his work today."

Francis chuckled, "Arthur and I differ somewhat in our definition of fine art. Not to impugn your work, monsieur." Alfred waved his hand, shaking his head. Arthur cleared his throat and set his napkin in his lap, motioning for Alfred to do the same. He did, and noticed that there were multiple tiers of silverware on either side of his plate. His eyebrows furrowed, and he looked over to Lizzy.

"Are these all for me?" He whispered.

"Just start from the outside and work your way in." She answered, her voice low as well. Alfred nodded and looked up at the waiter, who was dishing out caviar.

"How do you take your caviar, sir?" The waiter asked.

"None for me, thanks," Alfred said with a grin, "Never did like it much." He looked up as Arthur looked at his plate, smiling.

Arthur's mother lifted her eyes from her plate, asking, "And where exactly do you live, Mr. Jones?"

"Well, right now my address is the RMS Titanic, and after that I'm on God's good humor." Alfred replied without hesitation.

"And how is it you have means to travel?" The British woman asked honestly.

"I work my way from place to place," Alfred explained, "Y'know, tramp steamers and such; but I won my ticket on Titanic here in a lucky hand at poker. A very lucky hand."

"All life is a game of luck, I say," Liam said, smiling at Alfred.

"A real man makes his own luck, Liam," Francis added, sipping his champagne, "Right, Jones?" Alfred nodded, not necessarily agreeing, but not exactly thinking that conversation would go very well.

"And you find that sort of rootless existence appealing do you?" Lizzy looked at Britanny, disbelieving of how rude she was being.

Alfred was barely fased, "Yes, I do, ma'am. I mean, I've got everything I need right here with me: air in my lungs, shirt on my back, and a few blank sheets of paper. I love waking up in the morning, not knowing what's gonna happen, or who I'm gonna meet," He took a bite out of a bread roll, and continued to speak, "or where I'm gonna wind up. I mean, just the other night, I was sleeping under a bridge, and now, here I am, on the grandest ship in the world, having champagne with you fine people. I figure life's a gift, and I don't intend on wasting it. You learn to take life as it comes at you; to make each day count."

Arthur had been looking at Alfred in amazement of his beautfiul words, and Lizzy smiled, nodding at him. "Well said, Alfred."

Trying to hide a wide grin, Arthur raised his glass of champagne in a toast. "To making it count."

The others joined in the toast, speaking collectively, "To making it count!"

A while later, after Lizzy had lightened the mood a bit with a comical annecdote about her husband, Arthur leaned over to Alfred and muttered, "Next it'll be brandies in the smoking room."

"Well," Roderich stood, placing his napkin on his plate and standing up, "join me in a brandy, gentlemen?"

Alfred arched his eyebrows, trying not to smile at Arthur's correctness. Francis placed a hand on Arthur's shoulder, asking if he would join them. Arthur replied that he'd rather stay with his mother, and Francis left him there. Alfred got up as well, straightening his shirt.

"Joining us, Jones?" Roderich asked, "You don't want to stay out here with the women, do you?"

Alfred smiled and chuckled, shaking his head, "No, I think it's about time I started getting back."

"Probably for the best," Francis said as he passed Alfred, "It'll be all business and politics, and that sort of thing. Wouldn't interest you. But so good of you to come, oui?" Alfred watched Francis leave, a slight distaste for the Frenchman lingering. A soft British accent drew his eyes back to Arthur.

"Alfred, must you go?" He asked, taking Alfred's hand.

The American chuckled, "Time for me to go row with the other slaves." Arthur smiled as he felt something in Alfred's hand; a folded slip of paper. Alfred bid him goodnight and left the note in Arthur's hand as their hands slipped apart. After Alfred was gone, Arthur unfolded the note and read it to himself.

_Make it count—meet me at the clock._

Arthur blinked and quickly got up, grabbing his coat and kissing his mother's head. "G'night, Mummy."

Alfred was right where he said he would be, waiting at the ornate clock at the top of the first tier of stairs in the grand staircase. Arthur didn't even have a chance to say hello again before Alfred started talking.

"So you want to go to a real party?"

Further belowdecks than Arthur thought was possible, was a room crammed with people and full of music. The drums were so loud and fast, his own heart tried to beat fast enough to keep up with them. Glasses of lager and beer were scattered everywhere, and a cloud of smoke hung in the air, mainly overhead. It seemed the whole crowd was dancing to the fast-paced music, including Feliciano and the German man he had been talking to earlier that afternoon. The two of them looked almost out-of-place, with Feli being pushed around like a mop and the larger blonde man, his dancing stiff and awkward.

Alfred was out on the makeshift dance floor, swinging around a young girl a little more than half his height. She was wearing a striped pink dress, and had a purple satin ribbon in her choppy blonde hair. She was giggling wildly, her sea green eyes twinkling in excitement. Arthur was watching them with a grin, sipping a big glass of lager. He laughed and clapped with the music, and as the song finished, he cheered along with the rest of the room.

As the band began to play another song, Alfred leaned down to talk to the girl, "I'm going to dance with him now, okay?" He pointed at Arthur, and the little girl nodded, stepping back from the floor. Alfred grinned and took Arthur's hand, trying to pull him up out of his chair.

"Wait, Alfred, I can't do this!" Arthur shouted as he stumbled up next to him.

"Come on, it's easy! We're just gonna have to get a bit closer, like this." He put his hands on Arthur's waist, pulling him closer. The girl Alfred had been dancing with before pouted at him, and he grinned at her, "You're still my best girl, Lilli." Lilli smiled, and Alfred led Arthur along, matching the beat.

"I don't know the steps!" Arhtur protested.

"Neither do I, just go with it!" Alfred replied, leading him.

They twirled and spun, laughing as they stumbled along, neither of them having any cluse as to what they were doing. Alfred looked over and saw Feli and his partner climbing up onto a small stage over by where the band was playing. He grinned and lead Arthur over to the stage, grabbing his hands and pulling him up. The two of them laughed and danced some more, before Alfred locked Arthur's hands in his.

"Ready?" He shouted, grinning.

"Alfred, what are you doing—?!" Arthur cut himself off with a little squeal as the American swung them both around in a circle. They spun and spun and spun, until Arthur was very sure they would both go flying off into opposite sides of the room.

And meanwhile, Arthur thought of what a painstakingly boring time he would be having back in the first class smoking room. The air itself would be hazy with the smoke from the cigars, accompanied only by the stench the smoke gave off. Each man were in his uniform of an expensive tuxedo and white gloves clutched around half-full glasses of brandy. Low voices would be heard, discussing the latest politics both in Europe and in the States. How maddening it must have been, he thought. And those not driven mad by such acts must either not be intelligent enough to see their true nature, or know of this and simply care too much about their images to speak out.

These third-class men and women really knew how to throw a party. Everyone was having fun in any and all ways they knew how. Some talked and laughed over the music, others danced, and there were even a group of men gathered around Niamh (Alfred had introduced Arthur to both of his friends earlier) and another man arm-wrestling. Alfred got the two of them tall glasses of whiskey, and as soon as the drink was in his hand, Arthur was chugging it down. Alfred stared at him, blue eyes wide. Arthur noticed his stare and swallowed, pulling the glass away from his lips.

"What? You think a first-class man can't drink?" Arthur laughed. Alfred was about to laugh with him, when a drunkard crashed into him, making him spill his drink all over Arthur. Crossly, Alfred shoved the guy away, but Arthur was still laughing stupidly.

"You alright?"

"I'm more than alright. I'm alive." The Brit grinned up at him. Alfred grinned back, and then they both looked over to where Niamh was arm-wrestling. The Irishwoman's arm muscles tensed, and her knuckles turned white as she overpowered him, causing a wave of empty and half-empty glasses to spill from the table. The small crowd gathered around them cheered, but only for half a second as Arthur leaned over them to grab Niamh's cigarette to take a drag from.

"So," he said, putting the smoke out in the ash tray, "You all think you're big and tough? Let's see you do this." He slipped out of his shoes and handed them to Alfred, "Hold those for me, Alfred; thank you." He then readied himself, taking a deep breath, then rose up on his toes. The others looked slightly unimpressed, up until Arthur rose up even further, now standing en pointe on the topes of his toes. Both Niamh's and Alfred's green eyes went wide, and Arthur's face distorted into an expression of agony. Finally, he couldn't take it.

"OW!" He shouted, collapsing into Alfred's arms.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," the Irishwoman muttered to herself.

"Are you alright?" Alfred asked Arthur, who started laughing.

"I haven't done that in years."

Unbeknownst to most of the party, a man had appeared at the staircase up to the deck. He was wearing a clean suit and looked and felt so out of place, that he only descended the stairs enough to scan the room.

It was Francis's valet, Antonio, and he was looking for Arthur.

Those green eyes remained trained on Arthur, however, and the larger man held him close so he wouldn't fall. For a blissful moment, all they saw was each other. Arthur stayed down there for most of the night, dancing with Alfred and his friends, and having the time of his life. Sadly, the night had to end, as well as the party, and the crowd began to disperse shortly after the band disappeared.

Alfred walked Arthur back along the deck after the party, the both of them strolling, taking their time so they could make the night last as long as possible. While they walked, Alfred taught Arthur a song he had learned when he was younger. Arthur sang along, only knowing some of the words.

"_Up, up, higher, higher_—"

"No, _'a little bit higher'_," Alfred corrected him.

"Ah, _a little bit higher, up, up, look the moon is on fire_—" Arthur cut himself off this time, as his eyes drifted up to a sign that read _1__st__ Class Passengers Only Beyond This Point_. He looked at it, then at Alfred, and sighed. "I don't want to go…"

"I don't want you to go either." Alfred said sincerely. Arthur sighed and held onto one of the ropes near the railing, gazing up at the stars.

"Look at them," He said after a while, "so beautiful. And they're not even dust in God's eye."

"Mmmhm…" Alfred hummed, looking up with him, "I used to go stargazing with my brother before I left for Europe… I miss Matt…" Arthur looked at him, then chuckled and shook his head, and Alfred smiled, asking, "What?"

"Oh, it's just… I have three brothers; two older and one younger… we're so dysfunctional that I can't imagine missing them…"

"Really? I guess it depends on the size of the family?"

"Well, not really… Nothing's really been the same since my father left… Our company has pretty much gone down the drain, and my older brothers have had to take on jobs… but it's still not enough to pay off our debts and keep the family going, but my mother never had a daughter, so there was no one to marry off to a rich family. So… I was chosen…"

"That's a lot riding on your shoulders…"

Arthur snorted, "Don't I know it…"

"I'm sorry, that was outta line… but still, Artie… you—"

"Don't start, we've already been through this… I have to live how I have to live, and you have the freedom to live however you want. I don't have that luxury. Ironic, isn't it?"

Alfred looked at him sadly, and the two of them fell into silence. There was so much to be said, but never the right words to say it. Alfred stepped closer to him, and Arthur looked up, about to say something, but he was blocked by Alfred's lips on his. He kissed softly, and it was over before Arthur had time to react.

"Good night, Arthur." Alfred whispered, stepping back.

Swallowing, Arthur felt a painful tug in his chest, and it felt like his stomach was tying itself into knots. He muttered a 'good night', and walked shakily back onto the first class deck. He looked back and saw Alfred still standing there, a smile on his face.

He was in deep.


End file.
